Sterile. That’s the word most people use to describe the crisp, antiseptic mood of a medical office. In my opinion, it's just boring: the mood, the room, and everything else about this whole predicament. I bet the typical woman who sits here, blanketed in paper, at least has a story to muffle the deafening boredom. The residual emotions of women from the past clog up my oxygen. Sparkly eyes and tears of joy are clichés foreign to me. I have no pressing emotion and I have no story. All I have is a drained bank account and nine pre-determined months of agony.
The nurse knocks on the door. I expect her to be soft and bubbly. I brace myself to hate her cloying use of the word ‘sweetheart’. Instead, in walks a short, sickly-thin woman who is clearly returning from a smoke break. I immediately like her. I make the assumption that all her health-conscious colleagues judge her because of her love affair with nicotine. I’m proud of her for breaking the mould yet simultaneously ashamed. She mutters something in a raspy voice and exhales a breath with remnants of her cigarette. Inhaling the sooty scent incites within me a panicked craving for a drag. I don’t smoke, but suddenly the idea of not being able to smoke terrifies me.
I answer all of her prototypical questions. She is straight to the point. Her indolence towards my condition – or my soon to be condition – is comforting. I don’t want her to leave, but she does. And then I am alone again.
I put my hand on my stomach the way maternal women do. There is nothing in there – yet. I remove my hand because it feels unnatural. I ought to feel excited or even scared, but I can’t muster up enough energy to fake the emotions.
I look around the room for the medical vessel that contains half of my future child. I don’t actually expect to see a test tube sitting in a bucket of ice, but it seems appropriate to have some alone time with… it. I don’t necessarily need or want any alone time with it, but almost anything would be a welcome distraction from the emotional reflection of the beige walls.
There’s another knock on the door and before I can answer the room is filled with people and energy. The doctor makes a pre-rehearsed joke about a turkey baster, and I try, unsuccessfully, to feign a courteous chortle. Someone squeezes my arm and squeals something about a miracle. My lips feel dry. I hear objects being moved around the room and I feel people touching me, but I don’t feel present in my body. Words are being spoken, but they don’t sound like English. The doctor must have asked me a question. I’m squinting in the direction of the noises, as if my eyes and ears are connected, but everything around me is moving slowly through a thick fog. I want to scream at everyone and tell them to stop, but some force has a hand clasped over my mouth, silencing me. The pillaging takes longer than expected, but eventually I am left alone, again.
In nine months a creature will come protruding from my vagina, and it will resemble – in part – a total stranger. What’s even weirder is that it will also resemble me. This is a huge commitment, and I can’t even commit to a hairdresser. It’s not like this is some unwanted hamster purchased during a moment of loneliness; I can’t just return it or leave it on the doorstep of an animal rescue if it starts defecating in unwanted places. And to top it all off my consolation prize is that I will be a single mother. I am essentially creating the world’s most effective chastity belt.
The instructions left by the doctor are simple: lie down, legs up, relax, and let nature run its course. The beige walls are slowly closing in on me. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, I stand up on my wobbly legs, I raise my arms high in the air, and I start to jump… jump… jump… jump…
